A Buried Gardener

I didn’t know a gardener lay dormant inside of me until I moved to the mountain town of Asheville, North Carolina. In previous years I was busy with a demanding career across various cities: mostly New York, mostly single, definitely single-minded.

I’d always loved plants, especially fragrant herbs. Every year I strived to keep a scraggly rosemary or basil plant alive on my smoggy, siren-filled windowsill. But very little light got in my door; and growth needs light.

Then my husband and I relocated with our young daughter, purchasing the first home of our lives. Nature-starved from city life, we agreed the backyard was our top priority. We hired a landscape designer; I distinctly remember her pointed question, “How much time will you spend gardening?”

“Probably none,” I replied. I had no idea what a rich vein of gold nestled in our clay earth. 

As the designer’s hardscaping took shape, I became aware (a bit surprised) that I was researching plants online, studying gardening articles, and hoarding horticultural videos to watch late at night while my family was asleep. I never had a scientific bent, yet here I was obsessed with soil chemistry and light levels.

I felt drawn toward nurseries with a magnetic insistence; communing with plants, touching, smelling, observing them, absorbing their particularities. And I was plunging my bare hands into earth like a traveler dying of thirst.

What in the world was happening to me?

For the first time in my life I was spending hours and hours alone: gardening. Absorbed by the buzzing of nature all around me, I could suddenly perceive the glorious world in terms of color and scent. 

Working with plants tapped into something I didn’t know I needed; potent creativity without consequence, an intensity of innovation in nature that challenged me, a feeling of amazement at what sprang from my lightest touch; and, equally important, a feeling of awe at what grew whether I touched it or not.

Now I want to thank these ancient Appalachian Mountains for their gift of sight. Gardening is a soulful act; it’s been sweetly called the “slowest of the performing arts.”

If you are lucky enough that it beckons to you, answer it.